


Delirious

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: Shipping words [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 17:07:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17329049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: “Iasked,” he begins, sounding strangled, off-pitch as if the words areyankedfrom his throat, “if you’d like to go on a date with me.”





	Delirious

**Author's Note:**

> **Big bold reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all of its content is property of Square Enix.** I just like to play in the sandpit they've created for the fans.
> 
> This is for iArgent but for some dang reason AO3 won't let me gift this to you :( I'm sorry friend

His first thought is that he’s simply misheard.  Not too far a stretch of the imagination, worn down and run ragged and visibly wilting in the aftermath of fight after fight with daemons just to survive.  An endless swarm bent on destruction and –

“I beg your pardon?”   _What did he say?_ And oh, how simpler this would be if he still had his sight.  He remembers the subtleties of Gladio’s expressions – the pinched mouth speaking of annoyance and the worried creases at the corner of each eye, the uncooperative fold of arms over broad chest and the challenging jut of his chin, outward and upward with anger in the eyes boring down.  There is an entire story to be read in Gladio’s body language and the shift of his weight from foot to foot, the angle of his shoulders and the jut of a hip, and he can hear those tiny, vital movements happening now and wonders what they say when Gladio holds his silence –

But alas, sight has been lost to him for three years now and he cannot rely on such cues, no matter how much he wishes otherwise, and so he must turn his head in Gladio’s general direction and patiently wait out the grind of the gears in his head until he decides to speak again.

“I _asked,”_ he begins, sounding strangled, off-pitch as if the words are _yanked_ from his throat, “if you’d like to go on a date with me.”

That’s what Ignis thought he’d said.

“Did you hit your head?”  He asks.

“Wha – no?”

“Have you been poisoned?”

“No!”

“Delirious with fever?”

 _“No._   What the hell, Iggy?”

“Forgive me the doubts, Gladio, but I fail to wrap my head around why you’re asking me _this, now,_ of all times.”  What a horrifically awkward conversation to stand around like a spare part for.  What does he do besides wander off in an aimless direction and hope Gladio keeps pace with him, or fuss with his gloves or the seams of his sleeves or – actually that’s an idea.  He hasn’t checked for damage to the fabric in weeks, is it beginning to look ragged and unkempt?

Three footfalls heavier than Gladio’s standard tread bring them within arm’s reach of one another, judging by the sudden grip on his wrist bringing a halt to the fussing, the plucking, the slow pass of bare fingertips over stitching to track down any frays or holes or loosened thread.  The hand is bare, warm and calloused and bigger than he remembers – though he knows memory is a fickle beast – drawing stillness through his limbs and Ignis… dares to court the faintest spark of hope.   _After all these years…_

“I’d rather take a chance tonight and meet my doom tomorrow, than hesitate again and walk the afterlife with regret.”

“You’ve only shown interest in women, though.  Why the sudden change?”

“Sudden?  Odin’s balls, Iggy, I know you’re blind now but did you have functioning eyesight back when we were kids?”

“You certainly never –”

“I asked you to the bi-annual galas, Ignis.  Every single one.  Dinner at my place?  Movies at yours?  The clubs?”

“Noctis and Prompto –”

“Dragged themselves along uninvited.  I was always interested in you, dumbass.  You just… missed the signs.”

“I – didn’t realise there was still a restaurant open in Lestallum.”

“There’s not.  I’m cooking.”   _There_. The tiniest shift in Gladio's voice.  Is he smiling?

_“Astrals preserve my soul.”_

“Hey!”  A shove on his shoulder, enough weight behind it to stagger him back a step.  But Gladio still has hold of his wrist, and uses the hold to keep him righted, smoothes it up his arm so he can track the movement and not startle from another sudden contact, fixes his jacket even as laughter bubbles up his throat, reaches up to lay his hand against the scruff on Gladio’s cheek, patting there thrice and sorely tempted to hook his fingers around his chin and shake him within an inch of his life.

“All those outings and all this time and you couldn’t have asked ‘will you go on a date with me’ sooner?”

“Oh shut up.”


End file.
